


I know them all pretty well

by Sapphy



Series: The Kids Are Alright [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, Birds of Prey (Comic), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Brotherhood, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Crimes & Criminals, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is the best big brother in the world, Families of Choice, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Pre-Slash, Queer Character, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you have no-one, you have to make your own family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dick (12) and Damian (13)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from 'The Kids Are Alright' by The Who.
> 
> This is my first attempt at turning my epic not!fic into an actual story. Updates will happen, but I'm not working to any timescale.

Father and Kyle are doing that ridiculous thing where they threaten one another and pretend they’re not thinking about kissing. It’s disgusting, and beneath Father, and it leaves Damian mostly alone with Catlad.

He’s never met the other boy before – he'd only appeared on the streets a week ago - but Damian has watched all sorts of surveillance footage of him. He’s confident he could take him out if need be.

Except that Catlad isn’t running, or fighting. He’s eating a sandwich and watching Father and Kyle with interest.

“D’you think they’re doing it?” he asks Damian, around his mouthful of bread and tuna fish. “I mean, they look like they’re doing it, y’know? But they haven’t even kissed!”

“Father would never lower himself to consorting with a low class criminal like Catwoman,” Damian says firmly, wishing he believed it. It’s hard enough to understand how father could reject a woman like mother, but it’s far far worse when father is choosing a pretty thief instead. Mother is a better romantic prospect, in every way. Why can father not see that?!

“Ah sorry, didn’t realise he was your dad. That’s gotta be kinda weird for you, watching them eye-fucking up there. Cos that’s totally what they’re doing, just so you know.”

“They are not…” he takes a deep breath, forcibly reigns in his temper. Father had said Kyle has vital information for the Mission. He will not interrupt them just because father makes confusing romantic choices. 

“Oh they really are.” Catlad grins at him, suggestive and smirking, and Damian wants to hit him very hard indeed.

“You are low and vile and... and not at all a good criminal!”

“Well duh, it’s my first week,” Catlad says, shrugging. Damian wishes he could see the other boy’s face better behind his ridiculous domino. Who put ears on a domino?! “I’m gonna be though. I’m gonna be the best thief in the world.”

“And it seems you are arrogant as well!”

Catlad sticks it tongue out at him. “You’re just jealous cos you can’t fly like me.”

Damian is not jealous. It’s true that Catlad has talents Damian lacks, but that will not be true for long. He has plenty of footage to study. He will learn everything he can from it, and then he will beat this arrogant peasant at his own game!

“You are nothing but a circus boy. I have been trained by some of the greatest men the world has ever known!”

“Yeah, so what? I’m being trained by one of the greatest women, so there!”

“She is not great! She is a criminal! She is filth!”

That had, perhaps, been a little tactless. Catlad sets down his sandwich with theatrical deliberation, and stands to face Damian.

“You take that back.”

“I will not!”

“You take that back right now, Robin! Selina is good and kind and clever and wonderful!”

“She is a callous thief who cares for no one but herself!”

He probably should have expected the punch, or at least seen it coming, but the other boy is so clearly lacking in any real combat training that Damian hadn’t bothered to be on his guard.

His teeth clack together painfully at the jarring impact, and he thinks he can already feel his cheek swelling, along with his temper.

He’s going to show that undersized circus freak why you don’t hit Robin! He’s going to show him…

“Boys.” Father sounds angry. “What is going on here.” There’s no question mark at the end of the sentence, a sure sign that he has gone too far.

“He was rude about Selina, I mean Catwoman! He said she was dirty and callous and didn’t care about anyone!”

Catwoman ruffles Catlad’s hair, who looks pleased. “My little knight in shining armour. But I really don’t need you to defend me, kitten. I quite capable of doing it myself, and he’s not saying anything I haven’t heard before.”

“That doesn’t make it right!” Catlad protests hotly, the fabric of his costume making a scratching sound as his crosses his arms. “You’re the best, Selina, and I’m not going to let anyone say different!”

“Quite the protector you’ve found yourself, Selina,” Father says, sounding amused rather than angered by the boy’s ignorance. “Damian, you will apologise to both Selina and Catlad. We do not throw petty insults like children in a schoolyard, you understand me?”

Damian hangs his head, doing his best to conceal the way his cheeks are blazing. “Yes father,” he says through gritted teeth. “May we leave now?”

“We may,” father replies, pulling out his de-cel line.

Before Damian can do the same, he’s interrupted by a small hand on his shoulder. “I just want you to know, I officially hate you,” Catlad says, face serious. “And also you’re not as good the lines as I am.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Damian says, ignoring the small pathetic part of him which is actually hurt by Catlad’s declaration of hatred. “And when you can throw a punch that actually hurts, then maybe you can criticise my flying.”

“It’s not flying the way you do it,” Catlad replies, and then he’s gone, diving off the building, his line catching him at the last minute, twitching his body in an arc he manages to make utterly graceful and totally natural.

“We will ice your cheek when we get home,” father says. “I think you’re going to bruise.”


	2. Dick (16) and Babs (19)

Feline is drinking with Oracle.

According to her (and it’s really fucking difficult, even with her right there being all human and having a body and a laugh that doesn’t sound like nails down a possessed chalkboard, not to use object pronouns when the thinks about her) Dick is having a drink with Barbara, which… no. Just no. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

He’s worked with Oracle, or rather, he’s worked for Oracle. Oracle isn’t anyone’s partner, not even in the distant nebulous and purely feline way him and Selina are partners. Oracle is people’s boss, or a source, or an expert witness, but it’s no one’s partner.

Oracle is cold and all knowing and a little bit vindictive and a lot terrifying. Sometimes it’s impossible to believe she’s only been on the scene a few years. It seems inconceivable that he never had nightmares as a kid about that grinning green mask.

(Life in Gotham teaches you many strange skills, but the oddest is probably how very pedantic you learn to be about shades of green. Joker green is not Ivy green is not Riddler green is not Oracle green, and getting them mixed up can be life or death. There have been moments in his life since Selina took him in when he’s said honest-to-god prayers of thanks for not being born colour-blind.)

Barbara is none of the things Oracle is, except for all the ways she is, and it’s fucking with him even more than the realisation that Oracle is an actual person.

Barbara is beautiful in a very feminine way; the sort of girl-next-door good looks that made him go weak at the knees as a teenager. When she’d wheeled into the bar, his first thought had been whether he should go move some chairs and stuff to make more room for her to manoeuvre, his second had been whether helping her would make a good opening for trying to talk to her, and his third had been a cold sinking kind of terror when she’d looked right into his eyes and said his name.

Not a whole lot of people know his name. It’s not like it’s some big secret or anything, Batman knows his name, and Nightwing, and Selena and Thomas and… And no one else, because Dick gets along with people, but his life doesn’t leave a whole lot of openings for the kind of close friends he’d like to have.

All of Gotham knows Feline, and his little visits to see Thomas have made sure a few other cities have heard of him too, but no one knows Dick Grayson who isn’t family, or a Bat.  
And it’s not like he thinks Batman is prejudiced or anything, but he’s pretty sure he’d remember a beautiful female disabled Bat.

He’d put on his best smile, that one even Nightwing can’t really resist, and asked, “Do I know you?” in the friendliest, most innocent, most not-at-all-a-world-class-thief-and-safe-breaker voice.

She hadn’t made a joke, or tried the old “no but I know you” dramatic line, she’d simply smiled, held out a hand for him to shake and said, “I’m Oracle. Nice to meet you.”

He’d maybe frozen a little, because Oracle is an alien, or some kind of AI, or maybe a mass hallucination. Nothing that powerful and scary could be housed in a human body.

She’d raised an eyebrow at him, and smirked just a little. “Do you want me to prove it?” she’d asked. “I could tell you about where you stashed the sapphires you took when you hit Saranac’s, or what you got Selina for her birthday (good choice by the way, she’ll love it). Or maybe we could talk about your extremely eclectic porn collection?”

“Or we could not, and I could just promise to believe you?”

She’d laughed, and it sounded genuine and didn’t make his ears feel like they were bleeding even a little, which was just horrifyingly weird.

“I…” He’d come here to be… not alone, he hates being alone, but away from Selina for a bit. Away from the cats for a longer bit (he loves cats, of course he does, Selina would have drowned him at super-criminal birth if he didn’t, but there’s a limit to how much of his life he wants to spend being climbed on, even by Isis). He’d come here to get away from Feline. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She’d smiled and ordered a rum and coke, and he’d dutifully paid up, and now here they were, sitting in silence that wasn’t unbearable, but certainly wasn’t comfortable.

“I’m only two years older than you,” she said eventually, watching him over the rim of her glass. “And I’m in this gig because Batman, inadvertently, caused me to become paralyzed from the hips down, which didn’t exactly do great things for my plans to become a vigilante.”

“Oracle wanted to be a vigi? But you’re impartial!”

“That would depend entirely on who you asked,” she says with a smile. “But my point is… I need to unwind just as badly as you do. Maybe more. And I share your aversion to drinking alone. So I thought we could… pool our resources.”

There’s something in her eyes, something raw and human and vulnerable, and Dick 99% sure that its pure manipulation, but ultimately, that doesn’t matter. She’s right. He doesn’t want to be alone.

“Promise to leave my porn alone and we’re all good,” he tells her, shuddering at the thought of Oracle going through his browsing history. He always always clears it after, but then something like that would hardly pose much of a problem to her… God she must be a capital G genius, the Eddie or Batman kind, to do the things she does.

“Oracle doesn’t make those kinds of promises,” she says primly, laughing at him with her eyes. “But if you buy me another I won’t tell Nightwing about all those dark haired muscular young men you’ve been watching.”

That’s horrifying enough that the Selina in his mind (he’s never sure if she’s the angel on his shoulder, or the devil, but either way he long ago gave up trying to get rid of her) laughs, and he smiles helplessly. He’s been trained since his early teens in certain very specific ways to relate to strong older women, but bringing them alcohol when they demand it is absolutely one of those ways. 


	3. Tim (14) & Dick (23)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side-note, I imagine the Catlad outfit being a lot more like Catman's uniform than Catwoman's. Dick's Feline outfit on the other hand is the bastard child of Catwoman and Discowing and involves a lot of black leather and a lot of exposed chest. The Catlad outfit is relatively demure, though when Dick was wearing it it had a tendency to end up artistically shredded by the end of the night.
> 
> Thomas is obviously Catman. In the golden age stuff, him and Selina were best-buds, and hung out together and drove around Gotham in the Cat Car (yes really, at least it's better than the Arrow Car). I really like that idea, so I turn them into family whenever a story gives me the chance. Thomas is Selina's brother-by-choice, and Dick's beloved Uncle.
> 
> I have worked out a timeline for this world, which works find as long as you accept that this is comics, and so once someone hits 25 stop aging and become generically adult forever.

“Hey Selina, you home? I bought pastries,” Dick called, sliding over the kitchen windowsill, white cardboard patisserie box balanced on one hand. It was tough to fly while holding them, but worth it if it meant not having to brave the rush-hour traffic. People with honest jobs were on their way home, which meant that for the night-time folk like him and Selina it was breakfast time. “I got you a cinnamon Danish.”

“In here, kitten.” Selina’s voice floated through from the living room. “I’ve got a present for you too.”

“Oooh, presents. I like presents. As long as it’s not a kitten. Is it a kitten? I keep telling you, I get enough cat-time at your place.”

“You’ll have to come and see darling. I’ve got a coffee pot in here too, so bring a cup if you want joe with your breakfast.”

Dick doubles back to grab his mug from the cupboard. He’s not a caffine addict like Selina, but she makes amazing coffee, and always has real cream, so he never says no when he’s visiting.

She’s changed the artwork in the hallway since he was last here, and he whistles at the sight of it. He’d considered going after it himself, but he doesn’t like knocking over museums when he can help it. There are far too many rich assholes in the world just begging to be robbed.

“When did you score the Rembrandt? I don’t remember hearing about it being…”

Dick freezes in the doorway, mug in one hand and pasties in the other, staring at the scene before him.

Selina is curled up in her favourite armchair, wearing leggings and a sports bra, hands curled protectively around a mug of coffee. Sitting on the sofa, back turned towards Dick, is a kid. A small dark-haired kid with tense shoulders wearing all-too familiar brown lycra.

“You kept saying you didn’t want a kitten darling,” Selina purrs, “so I got you a little brother instead.”

“And you’re making him wear the Catlad costume?!”

The kid turns to look at him and offer him a wide, clearly fake smile. “She did give me the chance to say no, I promise.”

“The smile isn’t bad, but your eyes give you away,” Dick tells him, and watches with a kind of horrified fascination as the kids expression just… blanks. Wipes itself clean of any emotion. “Okay I take it back, you can fake smile all you like. God, that’s creepier than Batman.”

“Dickie, play nice,” Selina scolds, glittering at him in the way that ways means she’s pleased about something.

She almost certainly finds the kid as creepy as he does, or at least she had, but if she likes the kid enough despite that to bring him in, Dick can make an effort.

“Sorry, Selina’s right, I was being a, heh, Dick. You want a pastry?”

Dick sets the box on the coffee table and takes a seat in the available armchair, picking Isis up to make room and then letting her curl up in his lap.

“Give him one of the ones with icing,” Selina says, leaning forward to snag a cinnamon Danish between two delicate fingers. “He needs fattening up.”

That apparently shocks the kid that he forgets to fake, turning to stare at her in wide-eyed horror. “I do not…”

“Have all kinds of issues with food? You really do, Tim. Have a pastry. I promise to work you extra hard later, okay?”

The kid narrows his eyes in suspicion, but he obediently takes the pastry. Apparently he’s already learnt that attempting to cross Selina is always a terrible idea.

“I am going to have words with Jonathan when I see him next,” Selina says wrathfully. “Letting a child under his care get so thin! I don’t know what he was thinking of!”

“Science, mostly,” the kid, Tim, says with a tiny almost invisible smile that looks like it might actually be real. “Phobias. Fear-gas. Batman.”

“You’ve been living with Scarecrow?!” Dick can’t imagine Scarecrow looking after anyone, much less a kid. The man can barely look after himself.

“Tim here has decided the best way to become a supervillain is to learn from the best,” Selina says. “Tim, pour Dick some coffee before it gets cold.”

Tim reaches for the coffee pot, standing up to pour some into Dick’s cup. Standing he’s even smaller than he’d seemed sitting down. He can’t be more than fourteen, but even for his age he looks tiny, and the skin-tight Cat-lad outfit shows clearly how thin he is. His collar and cheek bones stand out starkly, far too pronounced for someone so young, and Dick’s beginning to see why he might have appealed to the part of Selina who feeds strays and only steals from those who can afford the loss.

Their eyes meet when Tim passes him the cream, and for a moment, Dick sees hope and fear and desperate longing in the kid’s eyes, before it’s all blanked again, and Dick is struck by a sudden need to find out who’s behind the mask.

“You know, I always wanted a little brother,” Dick says, giving the kid his most winning smile. “You ever been train surfing, Tim?”

“Train… what? Is that what I think it is?”

Selina laughs. “It’s exactly what you think it is, and don’t think you can get out of it. Dick takes all his favourite people train-surfing. He even talked Robin into going with him once.”

“But… why?”

“Because it’s fun! And Nightwing could use a little more fun in his life.”

“Ah, he always seems to enjoy beating up criminals. Certainly he smiled a lot when he caught Eddie.”

“Yeah, but it’s not a real smile. He’s just better at faking it that you.”

“Really? I’ll have to study him sometimes when we’re on the streets. Thank you.”

That really hadn’t been what he meant. “How long have you been wearing the lycra?”

“Selina agreed to take me on a week ago. The costume is new today.”

“I had to make sure you looked for part for Dick’s Sunday visit,” Selina says with a grin. She’s enjoying watching them interact immensely, but Dick isn’t sure if she’s laughing at their discomfort or just pleased they’re getting along. He hopes the latter. She knows what family means to him. She wouldn’t throw around words like brother if she wasn’t serious. “Just because you’re not taking the name doesn’t mean you can’t look the part.”

“You’re not taking the name?”

“I already have a perfectly good secret identity, thank you.”

“Really, _Tim_?”

The kid bares his teeth, like Thomas when he’s about to get out his claws. “How many Tims my age do you think there are in this city? There were four in my class at junior school alone. But there are very few biracial world class acrobats who willingly call themselves Dick. I’ve known who you were since I was eight.”

Well that’s… “It’s not like my identities some big secret, kid. I’m not Batman.”

“Oh, I know who he is as well,” Tim says casually. “And Nightwing. I’m not certain about Oracle yet, but I will be.”

“You didn’t learn that from Scarecrow.”

“The deductive powers are all my own, but I did have the chance to refine them somewhat when I was working for the Riddler. If I’m going to take over this city someday, I’ll need to know who I’m up against.”

Lovely. Selina bought him a tiny megalomaniac for a brother. “You’re kinda creepy, Tim.”

Tim blanks his expression again. It seems to be his default reaction to any strong emotion. Not something he learnt from Eddie, who wears his heart on his sleeve, or Jonathan, who may not actually be capable of experiencing most strong emotions anymore. What kind of parents could raise a kid like this? “It’s a talent. I can be… not.”

He sounds like that had hurt, and he was trying not to show it, and Dick feels like an asshole. “You be as creepy as you like around me, little brother. I promise I’ll get used to it quickly.”

To his amazement, the kid actually blushes. “I’d like that. I’ve never had a brother before.”

That much, Dick had guessed. Tim has only child written all over him. He gives him his best encouraging smile. The kid might be weird and creepy and terrifyingly small, but if Selina liked him enough to offer him the uniform, he’s family, and Dick cares about his family. “Me neither. But I always wanted one. Hey, are you free tomorrow? We could catch the train up to New York, visit Thomas. If you’re gonna be a Cat, you gotta meet the whole family!”

“Are we going to… surf?”

Dick looks at Selina, who smiles and shrugs. She thinks the kid can do it, or she trusts Dick to catch him if he falls. That’s good enough. “Of course. Selina already told you, I take all my favourite people train-surfing, and I have a feeling you’re gonna be in that category real soon, little brother.”


	4. Tim (15) and Steph (15)

Spoiler's pretty new on the streets, but she's done her research, so she recognizes the boy in front of her.

He goes by Protégé. No one knows his real name. He's worked for most of the big name villains in Gotham at some point. He's been Riddler’s apprentice, and Scarecrow’s and Joker's. He's been seen with Red Hood often enough for people to suspect them of being a couple, and he can hold his own against Nightwing. He’s clever enough that he’s never been arrested.

Right now he’s working for Mad Hatter, which implies a level of creepiness beyond even that inherent in being a supervillain apprentice.

His creepiness is also being punished by the universe, since his current job forces him to wear a costume designed by Jervis Tetch. There’s the obligatory top hat, nothing like as grand as Jervis’, a full-skirted jacket in a shade similar to her own beloved eggplant, a silk waistcoat in Joker green, and mauve velveteen knee-britches. That would be silly enough, though the boy is poised enough that he could maybe carry it off if it wasn’t for the large grey rabbit ears and the matching tail, a ridiculous little fountain of hair pinned neatly at the base of his spine.

He looks comical enough that she actually seriously considers walking away. Going out every day dressed like that is surely a more effective punishment that anything she can dish out. But in the end he’s a wanted man, and she’s a vigi, and she can’t just leave him at large.

“Oi, Flopsy,” she shouts, aiming her pistol bow at the big muscle in his left calf, “turn around slowly with your hands up or I’ll make sure you’re not hopping anywhere anytime soon.”

His hands go up gratifyingly quickly and he turns to face her. His face is half in shadow, but she thinks he’s frowning. “I am a March hare, not a rabbit. Or does the cowl obscure your vision as much as it appears to?”

The man he was speaking to runs, but she knows enough about Protégé that she doesn’t bother trying to follow him. Taking her eyes of this guy would definitely not end well. “Right, a hare. Because if you’re crazy, why not advertise it, right?”

Protégé laughs, hands not dropping a millimetre. He’s too calm and it’s freaking her out. “This is Gotham. Being insane in this city is hardly something to be ashamed of. It’s practically a requirement.”

“Not everyone in this town is a supervillain,” she retorts. She fucking hates the way Joker and Protégé and Hatter and all the other Arkham escapees seem to think they’re somehow more Gotham, more representative of the city, that all the people just trying to live their lives in peace.

“Obviously. Someone’s got to do the henchman-ing. And of course some of you are vigilantes.”

She decides to ignore that. “What were you doing?”

“Perchasing recreational drugs,” he says, with a shrug. “Entirely for my own use, I assure you. Living with Hatter is really quite difficult without some kind of chemical alteration. There’s only so much tea I can drink sober.”

She coughs to try and cover up her laugh. “You could just move out?”

“Red Hood does keep offering me his couch, but I never end an apprenticeship before I’ve learnt everything I set out to learn.”

“What exactly is Hatter teaching you other than how to be a creepy paedophile?!”

“Paedo… You do realise I’m not much older than you? Perhaps even the same age. And I really have no interest in the under tens except as occasional hostages. Now are you going to come tie me up, or shall I begin finding a new dealer, since you seem to have scared of the last one?”

Steph growls and reaches to her belt for zip strips. She doesn’t let her attention waver for more than a second, but that’s enough. Protégé reaches down and behind himself, his hand coming back into sight holding his… tail.

She just has enough time to think, “of-fucking course it’s weaponize,” before he’s throwing it.

It detonates in midair, and the resulting explosion is deafening, sending masonry crashing down all around them.

When the dust clears enough that she can at least make out silhouettes, she sees Protégé, swaying on his feet as he attempts to scramble away.

Her eyes are full of dust, and she’s pretty sure one of her ears is bleeding, but she manages to aim well enough to take out one his legs, sending him sliding back down the pile of debris.

The only problem with her pistol bow is that it’s one shot only, and reloading gives your enemy times to do things like fling a brick at your arm with deadly accuracy.

She screams with the pain of the impact, staggering behind the nearest available cover before he can throw anything else.

The bow, her beautiful purple bow that Huntress had had made especially for her, is broken, and so, almost certainly, is her arm. Shit, shit, shit. She’d known he was dangerous, known he’d gone toe to toe with fucking Nightwing, but she’d been so keen to be a hero, and he’d looked so harmless with his stupid fucking bunny ears.

Speaking of, she peers around the crumbling wall she’s using as cover, and spots them bobbing behind another piece of wall, about 20, 30 feet away.

“That bow was a present you asshole,” she yells, good hand working at opening the belt pouch that contains bandages, doing her best to make an improvised sling with only one hand and her teeth for the knots.

“Well that was my favourite leg,” Protégé shouts back. He sounds more annoyed than pained. “And do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood stains out of these britches?! They’re dry-clean only!”

If she was in less pain she’d probably be laughing hysterically at that. “Protégé is a prissy little bitch, who knew?”

Protégé actually does laugh, because he’s a psychopath who apparently doesn’t feel pain. “Everyone who’s ever spent more than five minutes with me? If you’re trying to insult me, you’ll have to try hard than that.”

“Alright how about I point out your costume looks like the world’s most fucked up fetish gear? Bunny girls are one thing but that’s just gross. Does Hatter stroke your ears when he fucks you?”

“Alright, I am young enough for Jervis, but I’m really not blonde enough or female enough. And I tried the Alice dress, but it really didn’t suit me. Even Hood didn’t like it, and he loves seeing me in drag.”

“Gah, way too much information you freak. Can we go back to killing each other? Anything other than talking about your freaky sex life!”

“You actually think cross-dressings freaky? After growing up in Gotham?! That’s sort of adorable. I mean, alright the thing with the pink dress and the thigh-highs and the guns is somewhat perverse, but it’s not Hood’s fault he read a lot of manga in Juvie.”

“Stop talking, Christ, please just stop talking. I’ll even stop trying to kill you!”

“But where would be the fun in that?” Protégé asks. He sounds distracted, not as focussed on their banter as he had been, and she peers around her cover to see what’s distracting him.

The ears bob and seem to almost twitch as their owner moves, edging left, probably intending to make a break for it. Could be run on that leg? Steph’s pretty sure she wouldn’t able to stand with a wound like that, but this kid isn’t normal. There’d been no hints that he’s a Meta, but how else to explain his seeming obliviousness to pain?

She pulls the knot holding her messy sling in place tight with her teeth, and reaches for likely looking half brick with her free hand.

She selects one that fits nicely in her hand, hefts it a little to get a feel for it, and then edges towards a part of the wall that’s lower than the rest, offers less protection but plenty of room to move if Protégé…

There he goes, darting out from behind cover like the hare he’s dressed as, keeping low and zigzagging to minimise the target, but she had her marksmanship training from Black Canary, and she’s thrown enough bricks at enough windows over the years that she hits him square on the back of the skull, knocking off his hat and sending him sprawling.

Shit, he’s not moving. What if she killed him?! Oracle’s forgiving about that sort of thing but she hadn’t meant to…

She edges carefully up to his prone form, kicks him to see if he responds and when he groans faintly, takes a sharp step back.

He rolls over, one hand reaching unerringly for his hat, and it occurs to her for the first time to wonder if he’s mind controlled in some way.

His eyes are clear when he looks at her, but he certainly doesn’t look any saner.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you Spoiler,” he says, sincerely, “but I’m going to have to ask for a ceasefire for the moment. I think I may be going to throw up.”

And then he does, all over his hat.

Steph laughs so hard she nearly falls over, because she’s high on adrenaline right now, and the ears look so disgustingly pathetic and bedraggled. When he runs, she doesn’t bother chasing him. She has a feeling they’re going to bump into one another again very soon. And next time they meet, she's going to make him pay for breaking her bow. Possible literally.


	5. Tim (15) & Jason (20)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Jason turned out to be a lot of fun, if only because he emphasises like he's being written by Frank Miller.
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for pretty hardcore violence against someone not old enough to drive, and Jason's general not-okay-ness. Also italics. Lots of italics.
> 
> Also I realise a lot of these seem to involve Tim. It's not intentional, it's just that he's the most peripetetic of these guys, so he tends to be the one meeting new people first.

There’s a new kid wearing the Prankster colours. He’s got hair that looks like he’s been electrocuted, and knobbly knees, and he looks about six, and Jason is so angry he can hardly _see_.

Being beaten unconscious had _hurt_ , and the betrayal had hurt more, and the loneliness had hurt still more, but this… Finding out he’s been _replaced_? That hurts like a _knife_ in the _gut_. He wants to beat the kid to _death_ , wants to shoot him through the head. He wants to _rip_ every _scrap_ of red off the kid’s skinny little body because while the green was always Joker’s, and Jason never expected loyalty from a monster, the red had been all Harley’s, and she’d been his _big sister,_ and now she’s given some other kid…

Does she tuck this one in at night? Tell him stories about her past? Has she shown him how to make Bud and Lou sit yet? Does he know what name is on her birth certificate?

Jason’s distantly aware that he’s shaking, but it doesn’t matter, it’s not _important_ , it’s just rage, just boiling all-consuming _rage_ at having been _replaced_ , _forgotten_ , abandoned like he didn’t even _**matter**_!

He’s going to kill this kid, kill him and leave his body somewhere public for Harley and J to find. He’s going to beat the kids face in with a _crow-bar_ , so no-one remembers what he looked like wearing _Jason’s_ colours. Wearing Jason’s _**family**_!

He curls his hand around the grip of his gun, and misses Mr Bang like a limb, even though his fingers probably wouldn’t even fit around the child-sized trigger any more. Mr Stabby and Mr Bang had been the first real birthday presents he’d gotten since he was _eight_ , and even though Harley had given them the stupidest names ever, he’d loved them. She’d stuck bows on them both, and made party hats for everyone, including Bud and Lou, and J had sung him happy birthday with ridiculous made-up words that made Jason laugh till he cried, and he’d been happy. Really _happy_ for the first time since before his mom died. Since before she started injecting herself.

This skinny little kid didn’t take all that away, Joker did that and Jason is going to make him **_pay_** , but right now that doesn’t _matter_. Right now nothing matters except taking back the red and green he doesn’t even _want_ anymore.

He takes two, three, silent steps closer, levels his gun at the back of the kid’s head, and flicks off the safety.

It makes almost no noise, but either the kid has super senses, or he’s paranoid enough to be listening for it, because he turns instantly, a flat bladed knife in one hand and what’s either the red plastic toy bomb from that stupid board game Harley used to love, or an exact replica of it, in the other.

Jason keeps his expression blank, cold, but it’s hard because the kid (he looks even younger face to face, wide grey eyes and a nose that’s still a little too big for him) doesn’t scream, or yell, or even look angry. He looks _happy_ , ecstatic in a way Jason wants to compare to a kid at Christmas but which really reminds him of how Harley looks when J pays her one of his incredibly rare compliments.

“ _Jason_?!” the kid breaths. “It’s really…? No one told me you were out of jail!”

He speaks well, like he comes from money and went to a good school, but the knife hasn’t wavered, hovering less than a foot from Jason’s throat, even though the kid looks like he’s desperate to give Jason a _hug_.

“They didn’t exactly announce it on the TV, kid,” Jason says, bemused.

“That was very remiss of them,” the kid says primly. “It’s… You look well. Last time I saw you, you were fifteen. You got _big_.”

The last is said with something like lust, and coming from someone so young it makes Jason flinch. God, the last thing he fucking needs is for his _replacement_ to have a _crush_ on him.

“Waddaya mean, the last time you saw me? I’ve never seen you before in my life, kid.”

“No,” the kid agrees, smiling a tiny secretive smile. There’s something wrong about his eyes, something that reminds Jason of J, and it’s making him nervous. “You didn’t. I’m really a very good stalker.”

Stalker… _fuck_ , maybe he’s got this all wrong. Maybe the kid _took_ the outfit. He shoulda _known_ Harley wouldn’t… **No**. That’s wishful thinking. The kid is in Joker’s hideout, wearing Prankster’s colours. Harley _could_ and _did_ replace him. She just happened to pick the creepiest kid in creepsville to do it with.

“You _stalked_ me.”

“Mostly I stalked Catlad,” the kid says. “Coming across you on one of my field trips was an unexpected bonus.” He throws the plastic bomb into the air and catches it again, and Jason can’t tell if he’s fidgeting, grandstanding or trying to be distracting.

“That’s not even a real bomb,” Jason points out, tensing and relaxing the muscles of his gun arm as much as he can to keep from tiring.

“It _wasn’t_ a real bomb,” the kid corrects. “It’s nothing fancy now, but it will certainly kill you if I throw it accurately enough.” He smiles, wider than before, but still small. “Eddie is really very good at explosives. Not up to the Joker’s standard of course, but then, who is?”

Why had _Riddler_ been teaching _Joker’s_ hench-kid? They’re not friends, and he and Harley _despise_ one another.

“Who are you, kid?”

“Most people would ask that before they pulled a gun, you know. I’m Protégé. Please to meet you. May I call you Jason? Since I assume you’re not going by Prankster these days.”

“Looks to me like you are.”

The kid, Protégé, shakes his head. “I told you, I’m Protégé. I’m not Joker’s kid, I’m his apprentice. The colours just seemed… appropriate. And of course a part of me was hoping I look as good in them as you did.”

“The green doesn’t suit you.”

“No, I know. Nor does the overall casual look you created. I never thought I’d miss the tights this much, but the outfit Catwoman gave me really was much more my style.”

Riddler. Catwoman. Joker. And he goes by Protégé… “So what, you’re some kind of _supervillain intern_?!”

“More or less, yes. I’ve even been known to make coffee on occasion. Both Eddie and Selina are absolutely foul without it. Do you mind if we put down the weapons? My arms are getting tired.”

“Go ahead. It’s not like either would do you any good.”

Protégé shows his teeth in something which definitely isn’t a smile, but isn’t quite a snarl. “I’ve been practising knife throwing since I was six, and while I am not fast enough to dodge bullets, I am absolutely fast enough to get a little revenge before you drop me.”

“And the bomb?”

“Insurance. I’d really rather not leave an easily ID’d corpse.”

Jason looks at the boy. He can see now what’s wrong with his eyes. They have that same watchful quality J’s do, that calm amusement that makes everything he does seem like a performance. Everything except that very first reaction. His excitement, his _joy_ , at meeting Jason, that had been real. Everything since then… “How old are you?”

“Fifteen. Does that matter?”

“Not especially.” It does. He can’t… shit, he can’t shoot a fi;fteen year old.

He lowers his gun, barely a centimetre, but his resignation must show in his eyes, because Protégé smiles one of his tiny secret smiles and slides the knife back into a wrist sheath. It’s got to be custom-made. No one makes them for wrists that slender. Jason could snap them with one hand.

“You shouldn’t’ve taken my colours, kid,” he says, clipping his holster shut.

“Perhaps not. I had assumed you wouldn’t want them anymore.”

“ _Did_ you take them? Or were you given…”

“Joker gave me the cap. The rest, I admit;, was my idea. Does it matter?”

The knife Jason keeps at his back isn’t a good quality as Mr Stabby, doesn’t hold an edge as well and it won’t last as long, but it’s good enough that he’d got it razor sharp. It’ll probably barely hurt, not like a bullet. Quick and easy, and still messy enough for his purposes.

“Not really. Like you said, I don’t want them anymore. They might as well get used. You enjoy working for J?”

“It’s certainly educational.”

“And Harley, she’s okay? Treat you alright?”

“I’m not sure she likes me very much. I think I’m not enough like you, but when I try to copy you, it upsets her more.”

Still loyal. Still his big sister… **No**. Not that. She’d let J _beat_ him, let Jason _bleed out_ , let him _rot_ , _days_ and _weeks_ and _hours_ and **_months_** in solitary, and she’d only come for him in the waking dreams he couldn’t _escape_.

He’s going to _show_ her. He’s going to show _her_ , and _J_ , and all the fucking _henchmen_. _Jason Todd will not go quietly_ , and if you think you’ve put him behind you then you’d better watch your fucking **_back_**.

He grips the handle of the knife tighter, breathes deep, forces himself to relax. Quick and clean and the kid is a wannabe supervillain. It’ll be a mercy killing. If this child ended up Arkham, in _Blackgate_ …

“You wanna go grab some ice-cream or something kid? You’re definitely not old enough to drink, even illegally, and I’d like to get to know you. Since you’re wearing my old colours. Gotta make sure you’re not gonna disgrace the proud name’s Prankster.”

The kid's face lights up, like he’s just been offered a fucking _pony-ride_ , and that’s enough.

The knife goes in easy, tearing through skin and arteries and cartilage like it’s nothing. Quick and smooth.

He catches the kid with a hand behind his head, lowers him down gently onto the concrete floor.

His face is wet and slick with arterial spray and blood is bubbling up from the kid’s mouth as he tries to breath. His expression is shock, betrayed, and Jason doesn’t feel guilty, he _doesn’t_. Quick and clean. A _mercy_ killing. A _mercy_.

“Sorry kid. Nothing personal, but you didn’t ought to have taken my colours.”

The kid’s lips form silent words, his eyes boring into Jason. It’s hard to tell under all the blood, but Jason’s pretty sure it’s ‘fuck you’.

He could wait to see the aftermath, confront Harley when she’s vulnerable, pull everything she did to him out into the daylight where even she can’t deny it… He can’t. He can’t fucking _stay here_ and watch this _child_ bleed out. He’s gotta… _fuck_ , he’s gotta get away from here, away from the blood and the horrible wet noises and the look of fucking _betrayal_ in that kids eyes.

Fifteen. Fucking _fifteen_.

Jason pushes himself to his feet, stumbles back. Fuck, what has he _done_? He’s killed a fucking child, and he’d promised himself, he’d sworn, _never any fucking kids_ , no matter what, never fucking _kids_ …

There’s time, there’s still… he’s not dead yet. Jason opens his mouth, bellows Harley’s name as loud as he can, hopes like _fuck_ it doesn’t attract Lou and Bud because that’s an image that doesn’t bear _thinking_ about, and runs for the door.


	6. Tim (19) and Terry (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terry isn't an obvious shortening of Tariq, but it's a possible one, and it's the one Tariq is going to end up with once he meets his father.
> 
> I made Terry's creator Talia rather than Waller in this universe, mostly because I wanted to give Dami a baby brother. Tariq means Conqueror, which seemed like a name Talia would pick.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of child neglect. Also I mention an incident of violence within an established romantic relationship. The relationship isn't abusive as either of the people involved would understand it (it doesn't make either of them unhappy or less mentally well), but they're both very violent people and it translate into their interactions with one another.

There's a part of Tim (the part that’s normal and human and good enough that sometimes Steph can looking him in the eye for extended periods of time without flinching or hitting him) that feels guilty for enjoying the league of Assassins. He knows his decision had hurt the people he loves. Steph had been so angry when he’d told her he was going, throwing things and hitting him and shouting till she was hoarse. Dick had actually tried to bribe him into staying. (The jewellery, clothes, art, knives and car hadn’t been enough. The long tight hug while Dick tried to pretend he wasn’t on the verge of tears nearly had been). Jason had kicked him in the gut hard enough that Tim had nearly vomited and then asked in a horrible tight voice whether it was Jason’s fault.

The others had been calmer. Cass had given him one of her long searching stares and then used a paralysing nerve strike to force him to stay still long enough that she could hug him, nearly as tightly as Dick had. Barbara had refused to speak about it, but someone had emailed him dossiers on all the key players in the league, and he only knew one person with that kind of knowledge. Damian had given him a quietly earnest speech about not trusting anyone (combined with a coded plea that Tim not fuck any of his family, especially his grandfather).

(Damian had read his grandfather wrong there, but Tim quite sees how it happened. Ra's is totally unashamed in his sincere enjoyment of Tim. Sometimes they play chess. More often Tim attempts to topple Ra's' empire from the inside, and then when it fails he teaches Tim where he went wrong and how to do better next time.)

The thing is though, guilty as he feels (and he's certain that he does, has turned the emotion over in his mind and studied it until there's no doubt in his mind that that's what it is) the part of him that feels that way is small and relatively quiet compared to the parts which are busy learning everything he can and drooling a little at the sheer number and type of weapons available to him here.

This though? This might actually be enough to make him turn in his membership card. (Metaphorically speaking, since it’s tattooed onto his thigh.)

HE should have learned by now not to go looking in the Cradle if he wasn’t prepared to be shocked by what he found, as much as he’s even capable of shock anymore. But the biggest flaw in his last takeover bid had been a lack of knowledge of his terrain, so he’d gone exploring. He’d been hoping for secret tunnels. Instead he’d found a nursery, and a small dark haired child with hauntingly familiar blue eyes.

The first time he’d seen Brucie Wayne, he’d thought that no-one’s eyes could really be that blue.

"Hello," the little boy says, in clear but accented English. "Isme Tariq. Comment tu t'appelles?"

English French and Arabic. And the boy can't be more than four, probably younger. He's almost certainly large for his age, just like the man whose mouth and eyes he has.

"I'm the Spider," Tim tells him. Ra’s had given him the name after their last little battle of wits, and he's proud of it. He'd got too old for Protégé. "Al’einkabūt. Can you speak English?" His Arabic is fluent, and his French passable, but he can't switch easily between languages the way Tariq clearly can.

"Of course," Tariq says, proudly. "Do you work for Grandfather?"

"I do. Do you live here, Tariq?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," Tariq says. "In case they're spies for father."

If Tim were a different person, he'd probably have laughed out loud at the idea of him spying for Batman (because there's no doubt in his mind that this boy is another of Talia's experiments. Clone or artificial insemination? Without having seen Bruce or Damian at this age, it’s hard to tell.)

"I'm not a spy," Tim says. “I have met your father, but I don't work for him. I know your big brother well though." It’s a gamble. Damian is the black sheep of Ra’s murderous family. There’s no telling whether Talia has even told the boy he has a brother.

The child lights up, open little face full of childish delight. Apparently he’d known.

"You know Damian? Mother says father stole him and made him bad."

The last word is said with a certain relish, and Tim wonders how long it would take for a child to begin resenting Talia's particular brand of controlling parenting if no other view points were offered.

"Damian isn't bad," Tim says firmly, summoning up that tiny childish part of him that will forever be a little bit in love with Batman and Robin. It’s small and weak compared to the parts that loved Catlad and Prankster, but it’s there. "Damian is one of the most moral people I've ever met. Do you know what that means?" He has no idea what kind of vocabulary and language comprehension to expect from a child like Damian.

"He does good things, even when it's hard," Tariq offers.

"That's a good explanation, yes. Damian helps people, even when it's hard for him, just like your father does."

"But father tries to stop grandfather!"

Because your grandfather is a mass murdering supervillain and I want to be just like him when I grow up. Although maybe less melodramatic and high camp. No, that’s hardly a suitable explanation for a child. "He does. And this is difficult for me because mostly I think your grandfather is right. But I think the best way to explain is that your grandfather tries to help the world, even when the only way to do that is to hurt people. Your father tries to help people, everyone he can, but he doesn't worry so much about the world. Do you see?"

"I think so. But which is better?"

I'm arguing morality with a four year old, Tim realizes. Dick would laugh himself sick if he could see this.

"I don't know. I'm not a very moral person. I think your father has helped more people but maybe I just think so because I live in the same city as him so I see him more."

"You live here now, you said!"

"I do. And I'm learning lots of things from your grandfather, and your mother."

Tariq considers this then nods. "You should tell me about Damian now," he says imperiously. 

"What would you like to know?"

Tariq clasps his hands together and bounces a little on his toes. “How does he fight? Does he like books? Does father let him go outside?"

The soft, Steph approved parts of Tim are aching for this boy, and even the nastier bits are feeling an uncomfortable sense of identification. The parts of him Joker had liked best want to take a claw hammer to Talia, and the Eddie parts are already plotting how to get them both out alive.

"Damian is allowed to go anywhere he wants. He goes out every night into the city to fight criminals. He's very big and strong and he uses it, but he remembers what your mother taught him, and he still moves like a ninja. Dick is trying to teach him to be more acrobatic, but he's not flexible enough for a lot of the stuff. I don't know what he likes to read, but I know he spends a lot of time in the library at your father's house." Sometimes Tim waits on top of the bookcases there, just to see how long it takes Damian to spot him. Damian’s started booby trapping them in revenge.

"I like reading too!" Tariq says excitedly, and Tim remembers trying to force himself to like cheeseburgers because they were Dick's favourite. "Who's Dick?"

"Dick is..." warm arms and the smell of greasepaint, the widest smile he'd ever seen, impromptu picnics on rooftops, a safe place to run when even Jason isn't an option. "He's my brother, even though we have different parents. He's Damian's best friend, and he's the only person who can make him laugh. He's the best person I ever met, and he's going to love you very much someday soon."

"But... I'm not supposed to meet strangers. I'm not even 'sposed to talk to you, and you're one of grandfather's people."

It's irrational, and almost certainly comes from what Jason calls his creepy stalker self, but the idea that Talia might deny this boy the chance to have Dick in his life is what makes Tim decide once and for all that he's going to kidnap Tariq. He believes very strongly that everyone should have Dick in their life. Should have that easy affection that has become as necessary to Tim existence as food and water.

"Tariq, would you like to go meet your dad and brother? I think they’d like to meet you very very much."

"I'm not allowed," Tariq says doubtfully. "Mother says..." He wants, and Tim thinks how he’d have felt if someone offered his four years old self the chance to meet Dick Grayson. It won’t take much to persuade him.

It that immoral? No, that’s the wrong question. How immoral is he being? Not that it matters. The Bats will forgive him when they meet Tariq and realise just how much the boy needs them, and they’re the only ones who should truly get a say in this. Them and Tariq, and he already knows what the boy wants, remembers the desperate loneliness young children are capable of feeling.

"We won't tell her, okay? It'll be a secret. We'll go to Gotham and see your father and Damian, and then if you still want to, we'll come back here, okay?"

Tariq's smile is almost as blindingly bright as Dick's. "Okay Mr Spider. I'd like that."

Tim makes himself a silent vow that if Bruce lets the child leave again once he’s got him, he and Jason will burn the manor to the ground with the Bats inside it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love.


End file.
